Hope

Hope.

There are things that I want,

Through impulse, urge, lust or greed.

There are things that I wish,

For me, you, and those in need.

There are things that I crave,

Out of hunger, habit, or being alone.

There are things that I take,

A seat, advantage, for granted the things that I own.

But more important than the wants, wishes, cravings, and takings, are my hopes.

When I hope, truly hope, it is not for a sunny day or quiet ride. My hopes are never something so flippant or benign.

My hopes are crucial, my hopes are vital, my hopes are uniquely dear to me, my hopes are personal, my hopes are mine.

My hopes come from something far more important than necessity. My hopes birth and are borne from that stuff which forms my life.

My hopes carry such an unknowable weight and gravity, that they could shatter into a million stars by the slightest prick of the finest knife.

My hopes are not formless, but they are are without heft, like a double of my soul in the imperceivable, aethereal shape of me.

My hopes carry me, and they will see me to my final rest. The course of the journey of my life will be shaped by my hopes and the hopes of those around me, whoever they may be.

Hope is the only thing that will remain in my darkest depths and my final hour. Hope will be a flame that cannot be extinguished. Hope’s destiny is to make this world a good world. But hope cannot do it alone.

I cannot precisely articulate those things for which I hope. For, to utter those hopes would be to permeate something fine and delicate, like magic. To speak my hope aloud would be to identify and dull it, where previously unspoken, it shone.

There are things that I hope,

That make me,

That make,

I.

There are things that I hope.

That live in me.

That will never

die.

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